


Of banquets, banshees, and brutes.

by pukingflowers



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: And realize they love each other, Fuck Or Die, Geralt being a broody little bastard, Geraskier, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Monster of the Week, Pre-Relationship, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash, Slow Burn, True Love, Two idiots get into lots of trouble, Werewolf Bites, Whump, but then geralt says f that trope, way too many innuendos, written as slash but can be seen as deep friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:28:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27271189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukingflowers/pseuds/pukingflowers
Summary: Some pre-relationship Geraskier drabbles from another fic of mine, not necessary at all to read it beforehand. So far there are two Valentine's Day prompt chapters, one spooky Halloween chapter, and a random Geralt cheering up Jaskier chapter. Featured baddies include nightwraiths, werewolves, random thugs and Jaskier's big mouth. All set vaguely after the djinn/before the mountain :)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 49





	1. Valentine's Day

“Ah, Geralt! Thought I’d find you in a...” blue eyes darted around the seedy tavern, filled with drunks and brutes and ladies of the evening. “ _lovely_ establishment such as this. Not judging, we’ve all been there. But I’m afraid I require your assistance, and I’ve heard such wonderful tales of your bravery. From that devilishly handsome bard - you know, the one you’ve been _avoiding_ for the last six months?”  
  
Geralt glared up at the irritating presence standing before him. The bard had on some garish outfit, bright red with pink details and ridiculously puffy sleeves. It hurt his eyes.  
  
After a moment he grunted and turned to the man at the other end of his table, who was about ten drinks deep and periodically rousing himself from his alcohol-induced stupor just long enough to giggle at a topless woman in the corner.  
  
“Do you hear something?”  
  
The drunk peered over at Jaskier with bloodshot eyes, taking in the outfit and the rose on his lapel, before turning back to Geralt and quickly shaking his head.  
  
Jaskier gasped indignantly and put his hands on his hips. “Oi! I know you can _hear_ me, Geralt. You can be such a child sometimes.” He gave the drunk an accusatory look, and the man burbled something incoherent, shrinking back into his flagon. “And you! Don’t encourage him, he’s been on this bloody ridiculous bender for months and...you’re asleep now. Good. Who is this sad man, Geralt?”  
  
“Leave me alone, Jaskier.”  
  
Jaskier stubbornly shook his head, taking a seat on the bench across from Geralt and stealing a sip of his drink, which earned him a low, menacing growl.  
  
“I refuse to let you wallow in...” Jaskier eyed a suspicious puddle. “ _ugh_ , is that beer or piss? Whatever, doesn’t matter. No more wallowing. Especially not on this wondrous, this _magical_ day of love and - and - are you _listening_ to me, Geralt?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Right, yeah, that actually tells me that you _are_.” Jaskier studied Geralt’s stoic face, giving him a serious look. “You know you can’t win them all - what Filavandrel did with your advice is on him, not you.”  
  
Geralt grunted and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just tell me why you’re here.”  
  
The bard sighed, wanting very badly to press the matter further but knowing he probably wouldn’t be getting much more out of the other man.  
  
“Well, there is a celebratory _feast_ happening tonight and I think it’s just what you need. A little cheering up, perhaps? Beautiful women, copious amounts of _booze_ , some delectable hors d’ouevres - what say you, old friend?”  
  
“Who did you piss off this time?”  
  
Jaskier thought about that for a moment, muttering a few names and keeping count of something with his fingers. “Hmm...I think it’s a couple of brothers? No, five. Five brothers. I _might_ have slept with their mother, once or twice. Or was it three times? I don’t know - in my defense, she looks _spectacular_ for her age, and she didn’t tell me she was _married_ , or that she had an entire _brood_ of massive...hulking...”  
  
Geralt put up a hand to stop his little rant, rolling his eyes. “Fine. I don’t need details.”  
  
“But I just have to tell you about this marvelous thing she did with her - “  
  
“ _Jaskier_.”  
  
“Oh, all right. I knew you’d say yes, anyway, so I’ve got your outfit all ready back at the - “  
  
The other man eyed him suspiciously. “My what?”  
  
“For the dress code, Geralt, it’s _required_.” Jaskier proudly displayed his doublet. “And we get to match!”  
  
It took nearly an hour more of convincing, Jaskier practically on his hands and knees, _begging_ Geralt to come. There might have been tears. Eventually, mostly to get him to shut up, the other man agreed - but not without a few conditions. He would wear red, but absolutely _no_ puffed sleeves or floral adornments. And Jaskier did try desperately to get him to budge on that part, to no avail.  
  
As they made to leave, the drunk from before grabbed Geralt’s sleeve suddenly, shooting a fearful look at Jaskier. “Is the fancy fellow _real_?”  
  
Geralt snorted, and Jaskier made an exasperated, incredulous sound. “Fancy - ? Oh, that’s just - the company you keep when I’m not around, Geralt. Honestly. You’ve got him all confused, pretending you couldn’t hear me earlier and now - ugh, come on, let’s just go.” 

♜ ♖

As the party reached its peak, Jaskier sauntered over to Geralt, a sloppy, sneaky little smile on his face, cheeks flushed from alcohol and dancing. He had one hand behind his back, but wasn’t hiding the object very well. Geralt could see a green stem peeking out from behind him.  
  
Jaskier cursed, pricking his finger on a thorn, and Geralt watched him fumble around with an unamused expression. “Shouldn’t you be giving that to one of them?” He jerked his head towards the other end of the hall, where women were currently receiving roses from various suitors.  
  
That impish smile evolved into a broad grin and despite the fact that his secret had been blown, was never much of a secret at all, he dramatically revealed the rose and thrust it into Geralt’s chest. And had the nerve to use his other hand to practically _force_ Geralt to hold the damn thing. A thorn slid into the larger man’s palm, meriting a low hiss.  
  
“ _No_ , no no no. _No_. I want to give - _hic_ \- give it to _you_.”  
  
Geralt looked down at the flower, somewhat crushed from Jaskier’s manhandling, and made a face. “Uh. Thanks.” A finger suddenly came up to his lips and he frowned, glowering down at its owner, the drunk bastard.  
  
“Shh, shush. A gift. To my dearest, best - bestest? Bollocks. My _best_ friend in the whole wide world. For putting up with me all night and looking _so_ incre-in _credibly_ dapper in his little doublet.” A gentle pat on Geralt’s chest, Jaskier’s hand lingering to appreciate the soft, glaringly red silk material.  
  
“You’re drunk.” His palm was bleeding lightly now, a few drops of red staining the flower’s stem. “And you didn’t even remove the thorns. This is a bad gift.”  
  
When he saw the blood Jaskier’s eyes widened and he snatched the flower back, glaring at it as though it had betrayed him somehow. After a moment’s consideration he ripped off the bottom part of the stem, discarding it carelessly on the floor. He then stepped even closer to Geralt, their faces inches apart as the bard stood on the tips of his toes, trying to get it to stay put on Geralt’s lapel.  
  
Upon finishing he took a step back, admiring his work. “There! Now we really match.” His giggle slurred a bit as he pointed at his own adornment.  
  
“Fantastic.” Geralt deadpanned, looking down at the rose, which had now lost several petals and was looking even sadder than before. An odd feeling tugged at the pit of his stomach but he ignored it, choosing instead to down the rest of his drink as Jaskier floated away once more, mingling with the rest of the crowd.  
  
The evening progressed without incident, thankfully, and as the partygoers dispersed he found Jaskier standing on a table, singing an incredibly raunchy song about succubi - in this version they were referred to as ‘horny goat women,’ however.  
  
With very little effort he lugged the bard’s inebriated ass to the local inn, making sure he was set up - and would _stay put_ \- for the night before going back to his own room.  
  
As he took off the horrible outfit and changed into his usual black ensemble, he noticed the rose had fallen on the floor and was about to be crushed by his boot. He glared at it for a moment, boot hovering in the air, and considered grinding it into the dusty wood panels.  
  
Nobody was there to watch, though, as the Witcher slowly, carefully, retracted his foot and bent down, snatching the rose up and stashing it safely in his pocket.


	2. Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The closest thing I could find to 'halloween' in the Witcherverse was Saovine (basically just Samhain) so we'll go with that! This chapter is set on Saovine night (the last day of oct) and Jaskier keeps saying "new year" because google told me that's how their calendar works.
> 
> I'm going to upload a few more drabbles I had saved here periodically if you're interested, or if you want a specific scenario please let me know :) happy halloween!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of inspired by a questline in one of the games where Dandelion makes Geralt recite poetry with him :~) it's called "the heat of day."

**Several years prior, somewhere in the outskirts of Toussaint…**  
  
Jaskier slammed his pint down on the table and raised both hands with a grand flourish, nearly knocking over a barmaid’s tray as she scooted by. “The theme is _animal kingdom_.”  
  
“I said no.”  
  
“No, you said ‘fuck off, bard.’”  
  
“And I meant it.”  
  
“I’m sure, though it's very hard to take you seriously so soon after rubbing ointment all over your precious Witcher bits.” Jaskier glanced pointedly at Geralt’s lap, referencing a large alghoul bite below his left arsecheek. He'd been overrun in a cave that morning. “Anyway, you _technically_ haven’t turned down my invitation, so I’m going to assume that - ”  
  
“Haven’t I? My mistake.” Geralt knocked back the rest of his drink and signaled for another before leveling the bard with a serious look. “I am not going to your party. Better?”  
  
The lofty airs Jaskier had been putting on dissolved and he let out an unbecoming, childish whine. “Why _not_?”  
  
“Do you really have to ask?”  
  
“But it’s not just a party, it’s a masquerade _ball_! For which I have put together the _perfect_ ensemble, if I do say so myself.” He gestured to the mountainous pile of organza and silk on the seat beside him. “Really, what better way to celebrate Saovine and kick off the new year than with an upscale, mysterious, _sensual_ \- ”  
  
“Jaskier. Believe me when I say I would rather grapple with a striga from dusk ‘til dawn than spend the night watching you strut around like a peacock for - "  
  
"That's just silly, Geralt. I'm not going as a _peacock_ \- "  
  
"Let me finish. _For_ a bunch of flaccid, arrogant, noble pricks whose idea of a good time is donning a mask and getting inebriated on honey wine.”  
  
“But think of the food! And the women, oh the _women_ \- ”  
  
The necrophage must have still been working its way out of his system because Geralt's lower body was suddenly racked by a flash of pain that had him angrily leaning into the table and baring his teeth.  
  
"Bad enough that you follow me around like a motherless pup, but to continue inviting me to these pointless functions - why? Have you no friends?" _Stop_ , a voice in his head demanded, but he paid it no mind. "Or maybe you're just as idiotic as the crowd you're so desperate to please. Either way, I'm not going, and that's final."  
  
His words seemed to have hit home because Jaskier’s smile faltered and Geralt found he had to avert his gaze, aware of a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach that he attributed to too much ale and too little food. Seconds later, the smile was back, though not nearly as bright as it had been before.  
  
“All right. Have it your way, you stubborn arse.” Jaskier downed the rest of his drink and stood, hoisting the costume into his arms. Before he made to leave, he gave Geralt a meaningful look. “Just so you know, I continue inviting you because _you_ are my friend and I care about your well-being. If you'd rather waste away in the tavern so be it, but don't call me an idiot for trying to get you to enjoy your life.”  
  
The funny feeling intensified and though Jaskier hovered by the table, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement, Geralt refused to look at him, returning to his drink with an apathetic grunt.  
  
“If you change your mind, festivities begin at sunset. Palais du Charlet, at the edge of town. Massive castle. Can’t miss it.” No response, not even a second glance. Jaskier sighed. “Take care, Geralt.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Later that evening, the Witcher found himself eating his words. Jaskier was right - the castle was massive. Ancient and crumbling, likely abandoned for centuries. Grudgingly, he stood at its entrance, the sounds of music and merriment spilling out into the courtyard.  
  
The sun had set hours ago and the party – or ball, or whatever the fuck it was – was in full swing. As he stalked up to the door, a few drunken noblemen and ladies stumbled by, laughing raucously, their crystalline glasses overflowing with champagne.  
  
Hardly anyone paid him any mind – those that did hid their unsavory glances behind ornate masks fashioned after every animal imaginable - as he shouldered his way through the crowded lobby, towards the banquet hall. Before he could pass through, however, an usher stepped in his way, barring him entry.  
  
“Name?”  
  
“What’s it to you?”  
  
The man’s face was obscured by a mask as well. His was iron, a caricature of a fox with pointed ears, a slender nose, and almond-shaped holes for eyes. “I’ll need it to see if you’re on the guest list.”  
  
Geralt's nostrils flared when he noticed the long roll of parchment in the usher’s hands. Fucking Jaskier. “Of course there’s a list.”  
  
“Unless you’re here as somebody’s second?”  
  
He knew he couldn’t say ‘fucking Jaskier,’ as he wanted to, so he settled on, “the bard, Jaskier.”  
  
“Jaskier, Jaskier…” The man ran his finger down the page, tutting when he couldn’t find the name. “I don’t see a Jaskier here.”  
  
_Fucking Jaskier_. “Julian, then.”  
  
"Julian..?"  
  
Ugh. "Julian Alfred Pankratz, the Shitcount of Shittenhov - "  
  
“Oh. _That_ Julian.” The usher's lips curled in a distasteful sneer. “Very well. I’ll just need to see your mask.”  
  
“Don’t have one.”  
  
“Ah, then I’m afraid I cannot let you in. So sorry.” He clearly wasn’t. “Ta-ta, then.”  
  
This was turning into an ordeal. “I’m not here for the party, I'm - ”  
  
He was cut off as a gaggle of cackling women in costumes shoved by him. The usher didn’t even check his stupid list, only performed a swooping bow and allowed them to enter without a word. When he straightened back up, he squinted at the Witcher.  
  
“You’re still here?" A sigh. "No mask, no entry. Now _shoo_. Off you go.”  
  
Rather than try to reason with an unreasonable man, Geralt decided to take matters into his own hands and pluck the mask right off his unpleasant mug in one quick, fluid motion.  
  
“ _Sir_! That is entirely uncalled for!" He made to grab it but Geralt, in a move that was admittedly a little childish, held it over his head. "Give it back and leave, _immediately_ , or I will be forced to call the guards - ”  
  
Geralt put the mask on, securing its black ribbon tie and leering at him through the fox’s eyes. “Call them, then.”  
  
With that, he slipped into the hall alongside the next wave of guests, leaving the usher a flustered, spluttering mess.  
  
Inside was pure chaos. Dimly-lit, impossibly loud, and jam-packed with hundreds of people. He was about to start walking the perimeter when a familiar voice tickled his ear, reaching him even over the surrounding din - he beelined towards it without hesitation.  
  
“You are my everything, Thrissa. Your face is as lovely – nay, lovelier than the moon itself, your hair as radiant as spun starlight. Your eyes like two, uh…fossils.” Geralt groaned. Jaskier's words were slurring. “No, no, not fossils. Like the – the autumn leaves! Spellbinding. Ethereal. Not to mention your _other_ assets. Simply _divine_.”  
  
An obnoxious, grating giggle. “Your reputation precedes you, Julian. I’ve heard you idly wag your tongue like this at all the ladies.”  
  
“The spurious lies of those who would keep us apart. I assure you they’re not true. And that my tongue is capable of far more than idle wagging.”  
  
The Witcher cringed. He was laying it on awfully fucking thick. Must’ve been desperate.  
  
“Oh? And what, pray tell, can I expect of this magic tongue of yours?”  
  
The subsequent filth Jaskier whispered in her ear became clearer as Geralt neared their location and he was gripped with the powerful urge to cut his own off. The woman gasped, and it sounded like she might have been fanning herself.  
  
“Down _there_? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing - with your _mouth_? It can't be _sanitary_!”  
  
“Tell you what - why don’t you meet me in the cellar after my next set and let me show you just how sanitary this mouth can be.”  
  
What the fuck did that even _mean_? Geralt shook his head, refusing to dwell on it, and before poor Thrissa could stammer out a response he shoved through one last wall of people and finally caught sight of his sloppy, drunken, imbecilic bard.  
  
Though…not as sloppy as he'd imagined. Jaskier was leaning casually against the wall, the candelight above casting a warm glow upon the top of his head. He was sporting a sheer, white-gold organza blouse with short, ridiculously puffy sleeves and silk trousers to match. His mask, also gold, was that of a deer with long, curved antlers and two large, oval holes that drew focus to his doe-like eyes.  
  
The woman he had been speaking to - a buxom blonde whose face was obscured by that of a goat - was hanging off his arm, shoving her massive 'assets' in his face. She eagerly agreed to his proposition and he turned his head, peering over the crowd to locate the wine cellar door.  
  
When he saw Geralt staring at them, however – his identity pretty obvious, even with the mask – his eyes widened monumentally before crinkling around a broad smile.  
  
“Geralt!” The Witcher closed the distance between them, not sharing in the other man's excitement. “You rascal, you actually showed up! Where did you get that mask? It's perfect!”  
  
“I stole it.”  
  
Thrissa huffed, crossing her arms over her ample chest and giving Geralt a once-over. “You know this brute?”  
  
“’This brute?’ My dear Thrissa, this is the one and only Geralt of Rivia, the legendary - ”  
  
Geralt nodded to the woman, cutting Jaskier off. “Sorry, but I'll be taking the bard now. Magic tongue and all.”  
  
She went bright red. “Why, I _never_ \- ”  
  
“So I heard.” When she didn’t leave, he tapped his foot impatiently. “Problem?”  
  
She looked to Jaskier for assistance but he had been sipping from his drink and Geralt's crassness made him choke on the wine and a fairly mean laugh. Her plump lower lip jutted out in a pout and she promptly dumped her own beverage over the bard's head before storming off.  
  
Completely unfazed, he pulled a gold handkerchief from his pocket and started dabbing at his face around the mask. “I just love the way you make friends wherever you go. It's really, really special.”  
  
“Come with me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Need your help.”  
  
Jaskier finally took a moment to examine the Witcher’s appearance – his plain apparel, his swords. “And here I thought you’d decided to take my advice and have a little fun. What is it this time? If it's another succubus, you can count me out. I'm not up to getting ridden to death by a hoofed hag and I haven’t quite forgiven you for how close it came to that last time.”  
  
“Shouldn’t have followed her in.” He smirked. “Not a succubus - a nightwraith. But we have to get it done before the clock strikes midnight.”  
  
“Or you’ll turn into a pumpkin?”  
  
The Witcher rolled his eyes, grabbed the collar of Jaskier’s fancy blouse, and started towing him through the crowd towards the exit.  
  
“Ow, owow, _careful_! Organza is a very, very delicate material, you’re going to rip – all right, all right, I take the pumpkin bit back – just _please_ stop abusing my fineries!”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
The full moon was high in the sky, obscured by a few orange-tinged clouds. The duo made their way out of town, Jaskier struggling valiantly to keep up.  
  
Geralt noticed this and slowed his pace. “How drunk are you?”  
  
“Excessively. Is a nightwraith anything like a noonwraith?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You're in need of a poem, then?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Gods, but you are a menace.” Jaskier patted around his chest before slipping a hand between the pearly white buttons of his blouse and producing a small blue notebook, the nib of a quill, and a tiny pot of ink. He held the nib between his teeth and talked around it as he undid the lid. “About anything in particular, or do I get a little creative freedom this time?”  
  
“They like riddles.” Geralt paused, sniffing the air before making a sharp left. “Rumor has it she froze to death. Make it about that.”  
  
“Isn’t that just rubbing salt in the wound?”  
  
“No. It will remind her of who she once was.”  
  
Jaskier heaved a dramatic sigh and started scribbling. They were headed towards the cemetery, where the creature had apparently been terrorizing the local farmers.  
  
Nightwraiths were more volatile than their noontime counterparts - their songs compelled anyone who heard them to dance until they died of dehydration, starvation or exposure but, like noonwraiths, they were easily dealt with by reciting poetry.  
  
Once there, Geralt drew his silver blade. Useless against the wraith, but it offered security in case any other horrors decided to make an appearance. Jaskier continued writing fervently, muttering under his breath.  
  
“Quiet.” The cemetery was silent, save for the wind rustling the remaining leaves on the trees. “She should be around here somewhere. If you hear singing, let me know. And cover your ears.”  
  
While the Witcher stood stock still among a congregation of mossy tombstones, listening for any disturbances, Jaskier plopped down in front of one a few paces away. He had to squint very hard to read what he had written in the scant moonlight.  
  
“Does diamond rhyme with horizon?”  
  
Geralt didn’t respond and the bard poked his head up to repeat the question but found himself inches away from the most ghastly, skeletal face he’d ever seen. It was partially obscured by limp strands of black hair and there were two equally black holes where its eyes should have been. Its bone-white, horribly-long fingers curled over the top of the headstone, a pinky extending out and nearly touching his cheek.  
  
He let out a terrified shriek, flying off the ground and darting towards Geralt, who readied his blade. In response, the phantom floated up from where it had been hunched behind the stone, a tattered white dress billowing out around it.  
  
“Geralt - Geralt, it's the - the _thing_!”  
  
Geralt frowned at the creature, the way its blank stare remained fixed on Jaskier. “Just a banshee. They aren't capable of violence. Give her a moment and she'll be on her - ”  
  
Just then, the banshee pointed a finger directly at the bard. He shrunk further back behind Geralt and she unhinged her jaw, releasing a piercing wail. Tears streamed freely down her gaunt cheekbones.  
  
Geralt's eyes widened and he glanced down at the man cowering near his elbow. As quickly as she had appeared and effectively deafened them both, she lurched downwards, phasing through the misty, freshly-turned earth.  
  
“Wait – wh-wh-why me?” Jaskier’s teeth were chattering, breath coming out in small white puffs. “Don’t they only cry for - ”  
  
He stopped short when the mist - that had only been an inch off the ground - raised to mid-thigh height and the pleasant sound of someone humming playfully in the distance reached his ears, had his mouth snapping shut.  
  
Immune to the enchantment, Geralt could not hear the nightwraith's song and was therefore unaware of what was happening behind him. He forced all thoughts of the banshee's cry from his mind and lowered his blade, noticing the mist and the fact that his amulet had started thumping lazily against his chest. "The wraith is nearby. Start reading."  
  
When he was met with silence he turned and found Jaskier had taken a few steps back and was now swaying from side to side. Beneath his mask, Geralt could see his cheeks were flushed.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
“Not sure. Tell me, are my feet on the ground?” The bard’s voice was dreamy, reverent, the mist swirling around him and licking at his waist. Tiny pinpricks of mystical light started floating up off his shoulders and out of his slightly parted lips and Geralt could have kicked himself for not immediately realizing what was happening. “Don’t you hear that lovely singing? Like a chorus of angels. I could just dance and dance to it forever and ever and ever an - ”  
  
“And you will, until you die of exhaustion. Snap out of it, we don't - ”  
  
Jaskier twirled towards him, snatching his hands before he had time to react and giving him a spin. He grunted as the cemetery quickly became a gray and black blur but managed to catch the other’s wrists and hold him fast. It was hard to keep him still, with his body squirming so erratically. The clouds parted and moonlight fell upon the shimmering gold of his mask and blouse, lit his eyes up too spectacularly. The sight made Geralt's head hurt.  
  
“ _Jaskier_.” He gave him a firm shake. “We don’t have time for this.”  
  
“There’s always time for _dancing_ , Geralt.”  
  
With what Jaskier would later describe in his journal as _precious little_ hesitation, Geralt released one of his wrists and used that hand to slap him across the face. The effect was immediate and the little shards of light fizzled and popped, fading into the crisp night air.  
  
“Fuck!” Jaskier reeled, clutching the red spot that bloomed on his cheek and fixing the other man with a look of shock and betrayal. “ _Ow_! What the _hell_ was that for?”  
  
Geralt released a breath. “Welcome back.”  
  
“You slapped me!” All traces of his magic-induced euphoria had gone as quickly as they had come. “ _Why_?”  
  
"Would you rather I let you dance yourself to death? It's almost midnight, you need to start - "  
  
"Why'd you make him stop?" An ethereal, pleasant voice. Hard to tell how close it was, as it filled the cemetery completely, both near and far, loud and quiet. “Ooh! A fox and a deer? What fun!”  
  
Geralt pushed up his mask as another ghostly figure rose up out of the mist. Less unearthly than the banshee, it was a young woman with short, tightly-curled hair, her skin a mottled patchwork of navy and indigo, her lips chapped and raw. There was a silver-and-sapphire circlet upon her head but all its jewels were cracked.  
  
Her unnerving eyes settled on Jaskier's lute. “You're not a deer, you're a minstrel! I _adore_ minstrels!"  
  
He let out a nervous laugh. "E-evening, m'lady." His trembling fingers fumbled with the binding of the notebook. "Would you like us to perform for you?"  
  
She nodded excitedly, exclaiming "yes!" just as the Witcher shot him a look and hissed " _us_?’”  
  
“Us.” Jaskier had the gall to wink. “ _Ahem_. Here goes: I dance with ancient sisters three, but none of them is cold as me. Beneath us mountains rise and fall but we never change the dance at all. What am I?”  
  
When Geralt said nothing, the bard poked him with the notebook, repeating “ _what am I?_ ” through clenched teeth.  
  
“Uh." Of course he'd chosen something that required two voices, the brat. "You are winter.”  
  
The nightwraith giggled – a pleasant, tinkling sound, like windchimes. "Wonderful! I had a sister once, didn't I? We danced all the time. She was so kind. I think I miss her."  
  
Encouraged, Jaskier continued. “I am a precious stone, clear as diamond. Seek me out while the sun’s near the horizon. Though you can walk on water with my power, try to keep me and I’ll vanish within the hour. What am I?”  
  
This time, Geralt did not hesitate. “You are ice.”  
  
She clapped her hands together in delight. “Ice! Mother told me to be careful, that it can cut like a knife, but mother doesn't always know best. She told me he wasn't good for me and she was wrong then, too. May I have a third?”  
  
“A third? Really?” He'd only written the two. Time to improvise. “Shit. I…I, um…”  
  
The specter frowned and tilted her head to the side as he stammered. “Why have you stopped? Do you want to dance again?”  
  
“Nono, no more dancing. Wait, just - just give me a moment.” Think, Jaskier. _Think_. “I am a…no, that’s rubbish…”  
  
Geralt cursed as the wind kicked up around them and her voice changed from lilting and child-like to something deeper, guttural, her eyes flashing with dangerous blue light.  
  
“ _Wait_? He asked me to wait, so I did. Right here in this very spot. He said he'd come. I knew he'd never leave me behind...it was so cold I couldn’t feel my fingers. They turned all sorts of funny colors but I took a nap and it made everything better.” The breath poured out of her in thick clouds of icy crystals and flakes. “Maybe you need a nap, too.”  
  
It was getting harder and harder for Jaskier to catch his own breath. He dropped his notebook, hand flying up to claw at his throat. The air he did suck in was cold, painfully so, and his lungs and chest screamed in protest.  
  
He lurched forward and Geralt gripped his elbow, positioning himself between the two though he knew it wouldn’t do much good. He glowered at the nightwraith. “Enough. I have the third.”  
  
"Oh? Let's hear it, then." She leered at Jaskier. " _He_ has to finish it. Think he can do it without his breath?"  
  
“He can." Geralt cleared his throat. His delivery was rushed and not nearly as theatrical as the bard's, but it would have to do. A rhyme he remembered from his early days at Kaer Morhen, that the other boys had crafted during stealth training. "I cannot be seen, cannot be felt. Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt. I lie behind stars and under hills, and empty holes I fill. I come first and follow after, end life and kill laughter. What am I?”  
  
Jaskier was still gasping for air, hands gripping Geralt's arm tight enough to bruise. The Witcher caught his chin between his thumb and pointer finger, tilting his head back and staring directly into frantic, watery blue eyes.  
  
“Come on, Jaskier. You can do it. What am I?”  
  
“Ha! He can't. Look at him!” She took one step closer, then another, her tone cruel and mocking. “He's turning _blue_!”  
  
She was nearly upon them when finally, with Geralt’s encouraging gaze his only lifeline, Jaskier was able to croak out a rasping, “ _you are darkness_.”  
  
All at once, the suffocating atmosphere surrounding them abated. Jaskier’s knees crumpled but Geralt caught him before he could disappear into the mist.  
  
And the nightwraith was beaming at them, those same pinpricks of light that had been surrounding the bard earlier now coming off her in droves through cracks in her skin, fracturing her appearance.  
  
“The darkness took the pain away. It was my friend.” She closed the space between them but this time there was no malevolence, no fear. The blackened tips of her fingers brushed Geralt's cheek. “You must be, too. Nobody ever wants to be my friend. They dance and dance until they get sleepy and leave me all alone.”  
  
“’Sleepy.’” Jaskier, who was taking relieved gulps of fresh autumn air. “ _Right_.”  
  
Geralt nudged him in the ribs, hard, and he doubled back over with a wheeze. Gold eyes turned back to the nightwraith, his voice gentle. “How do you feel?”  
  
The parts of her body that had been enveloped in blue light started to fade before their eyes. “Better, I think." Her smile was sad, longing. She sounded more mature now, no longer wistful and dreamy. "All that waiting. I was bitter, so bitter because he never came but hearing such passion from the mouths of two beautiful lovers has restored my faith. I'm ready, now. Thank you."  
  
With that, and a breathy sigh, she opened her arms and dissolved completely into white and blue crystals. The mist evaporated as they passed through it and when they fell upon the ground, they melted instantly. It was a peaceful, but marvelous process.  
  
Seconds later, Jaskier burst into laughter.  
  
Geralt squinted at him. "What now?"  
  
"Lovers? No, _beautiful_ lovers? You called me, in short, a friendless wastrel not four hours ago and - _beautiful lovers_." He tried to compose himself but simply saying the phrase out loud had him crumbling again. Despite himself, Geralt felt the corner of his own mouth twitch in amusement. "I mean, should we have told her? It's so, it's so bad to laugh, I just - she thought you and I - ? And that helped her pass on? Oh, gods, I need to sit down."  
  
Geralt snorted, sitting beside him on a tombstone. "Ridiculous."  
  
"Poor girl. Watch her find out the truth and come back to haunt us." His laughter was dying down to soft, amused chuckles, his hand massaging his chest to chase away the lingering cold. Both men lapsed into a pensive silence, until he noticed the time. "Geralt?”  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Do you know why we have parties on Saovine night?" When he received a half-shrug in response, Jaskier gazed up at the sky, the stars winking at him from above. “It's because it is considered dreadful luck to be standing still when the twelfth bell rings. So we dance, to prove to something somewhere up there that we care about our crops or our finances or…something.”  
  
“Your specificity is greatly appreciated.” Geralt’s voice dripped with sarcasm, though his eyes were drawn to the church’s clock tower. As if on cue, the twelve bells signaling the stroke of midnight started to ring. “Why are you telling me this?”  
  
“I'm glad you asked. See, you’ve whisked me far, far away from the ball and now I’m left without a dancing partner. Unless that banshee feels like shaking some leg.” Jaskier's mask had been sitting on his forehead but he pulled it back over his eyes and stood, offering Geralt a hand. "I think you owe me this one.”  
  
“You’re joking.”  
  
“Afraid not. _Lover_.”  
  
Geralt stared at his hand as the sixth bell rang. It would have been so easy to deny him, to head back into town and collect his reward and leave the bard to prance around in the cemetery alone.  
  
Why, then, did he find himself taking the other man’s hand as if under some sort of spell? Jaskier’s palm was soft and a little clammy. A few callouses from a night of strumming the lute provided a pleasant amount of friction against his own.  
  
“After all this, I think the only logical next step is elopement. Get Roach, gallop off into the sunrise, the whole thing.”  
  
“You're pushing it.”  
  
Jaskier grinned. The ninth bell rang, then the tenth. At the sound of the eleventh, he closed the space between them and started a slow dance. The steps were simple, repetitive, making it easy for Geralt to follow his lead.  
  
“I can’t believe you slapped me. In the face, no less.”  
  
Geralt's other hand hovered awkwardly before settling upon the gentle curve of a narrow waist. “You were under a spell.”  
  
“Still hurt.” Jaskier’s eyes sparkled in the moonlight. "It's definitely going to leave a mark.”  
  
“Think you'll live?”  
  
“Not according to the banshee. Speaking of, do they make mistakes? They must. Nobody’s perfect. Maybe she was having a bad day? Or _maybe_ my mask scared her - ”  
  
“Jaskier.” Banshees were a rare occurrence, an ill omen. When they wailed for someone it usually meant they would be dead within the year. Perhaps a few, if they were lucky. Geralt would later consult Yen about it in private, but in that moment decided to avoid the question. “Do you ever stop talking?”  
  
“Do you not know the answer to that by now?”  
  
Some time after the bells had stopped ringing, they made their way back to the inn. When they passed the castle they caught sight of a large crowd of inebriated nobles burning a small figurine of Falka over a raging bonfire.  
  
He received his coin from the farmer and used it to pay for both of their night’s stay. For some reason, as they neared their rooms, Thrissa came to mind. Geralt glanced down at the bard plodding tiredly beside him.  
  
“You're not going to try making amends with your 'everything?’”  
  
“My what? Oh, _ha_.” Jaskier’s face broke out in a sleepy smile that the Witcher would later, while aggressively sharpening his sword and mentally reviewing the day, deny had some genuine happiness creeping into his disingenuous sneer. “To be honest, I can't even remember her name. Was it Clarissa? No…Alyssa?”  
  
“Neither.”  
  
“Hmm.” The bard pretended to think on it. “As it turns out, I’d much rather bring in the new year sleazing around the cemetery with my dear _friend_. It's fucked, isn’t it?”  
  
“Fucked.” Geralt agreed, handing Jaskier the notebook he had dropped earlier. His next words came out stiff and jolting. "What I said before, it wasn't...I didn't...”  
  
Before he could finish the thought, Jaskier popped up on the tips of his mud-stained boots and planted a quick kiss on his cheek, where the nightwraith had touched him. His skin burned at the contact, not a blush but a strange, prickling heat.  
  
“Bygones, Geralt. 'Night.”  
  
The Witcher lingered in the hall after Jaskier tossed him a cheeky salute and traipsed off to bed. Through the closed door he heard the other's bedframe creak, heard him curse when he found his mattress was filled with straw.  
  
After a moment, his fingers came up to touch his cheek. He'd seen the bard use the same gesture for a multitude of purposes in the past. A way of saying hello, expressing gratitude, bidding farewell...try as he might, he couldn't figure out which one this fell under.  
  
The nightwraith's words played back in his head then and he snorted, dropping his hand and turning to open his own door. _Ridiculous_. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No holiday this time, but the other two chapters saw Geralt being a grumpy lil butt so I decided to do some role reversal
> 
> I have a few more romantic drabbles saved up from previous writing spurts if you're interested! Idk if this is really an interesting series by nature, since there's no timeline or anything eee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which something is upsetting Jaskier and Geralt is determined to get to the bottom of it, whether he really wants to or not.

**Early evening, in the heart of Vizima…**  
  
Geralt threw open the double doors of the tavern, storming in and accepting his gold from the barkeep. He'd just defeated a horde of hellhounds that had been terrorizing the city’s inhabitants every night for weeks on end; a difficult task that put him in a foul mood, the kind of which only a hot meal and alcohol could cure.  
  
“Thank you, Witcher. It won’t bring my wee boy back, but I’ll sleep better knowing the pack has been culled by your capable hands.” The barkeep slid a drink across the bar, shaking his head when Geralt started fishing around in the coin purse. “I’m sorry I can’t offer more by way of payment, but this is the busiest we’ve been since those beasts came around. Drinks on me tonight, for as long as you can stand on your own two feet.”  
  
Geralt caught the drink, raising it in a silent acknowledgement of the dead before downing it in one gulp and sliding it back for seconds. “You're going to regret that offer.”  
  
The man chuckled. “Maybe, but you’ve more than earned it.”  
  
With a grunt, Geralt accepted the second drink and requested an order of whatever they were serving up for dinner that night, which turned out to be stew. Typical.  
  
As he waited for his meal, a somber melody filled the tavern. Something similar had been playing when he entered but he hadn’t given it a second thought. When he caught a whiff of familiar, citrus-laced florals, however, his nostrils flared and he immediately whirled around, expecting to find the bard’s goofy face beaming up at him, waiting to be noticed.  
  
It wasn’t. But there, at the farthest corner of the tavern, did sit Jaskier. He was balancing his chair on two legs, his own resting atop a small round table. Geralt couldn’t see his face - his back was to the rest of the room - but could hear him singing in Polish quite plainly.  
  
To his surprise, Jaskier’s tongue danced skillfully over the foreign words. Though beautiful, the song was uncharacteristically sad, like an elegy. Whatever it was didn’t suit the place’s lively, relieved atmosphere at all.  
  
Geralt stood and listened, bittersweet Polish words bringing back distant memories from long, long ago. Crisp evening air. A faceless, red-haired woman in an apron calling him in for supper. She used to sing like this while tucking him into bed.  
  
Strange. The choice of song, yes, but also the fact that the bard hadn’t even acknowledged his arrival. Whenever they found themselves in the same city, Jaskier would always somehow divine his location and latch on without a second’s hesitation. Like some sort of parasite.  
  
This was a nice change of pace, Geralt thought.  
  
When his stew arrived, he turned back to the barkeep, jerking his head in Jaskier’s general direction. “What’s that about?”  
  
“Beats me. I don’t much understand those creative types. Been like that for the last few hours, though he seemed uppity enough when I hired him.” A shrug. “As long there’s some sort of music coming out of that instrument of his I could give a rat’s arse.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“The locals do seem to be getting restless, though. Think it’s a bit too intellectual for ‘em.”  
  
Plate and flagon in hand, Geralt headed towards the opposite corner of the tavern, where he looked forward to eating and drinking silence.  
  
As he navigated his way through the crowded space, he heard a table of farmers complaining loudly.  
  
“Oh, make him _stop_. Ruining the mood with that nonsense, he is.” A woman, shooting a look at the back of the bard’s head. “Enough! Give us a jig, you prick!”  
  
It looked like several customers had thrown things because the floor around his table was littered with bits of bread and other refuse. Jaskier paid no mind, kept his back to them and continued languidly strumming his lute as the woman grabbed an apple from her plate and prepared to send it flying.  
  
Before he knew what he was doing, Geralt snatched her wrist, leveling her with a devastating glare. “That's not very nice.”  
  
“He’s been moping all bloody evening. And who the fuck are you? Release me, _now_." She tried to jerk her hand free, to no avail. “Bloody mutant. You know, we didn’t come here after a long day in the fields just to have some escaped court jester put us to sleep with his dull lullabies.”  
  
“Then go elsewhere.”  
  
“ _Excuse_ me?”  
  
When he was sure she was too frightened to throw the fruit, he released her wrist and plucked it from her fingers, placing it on his own plate. “I said leave. Or shut the fuck up. The choice is yours.”  
  
Satisfied by her flustered spluttering – and the fact that she was out of ammo - he turned away. For a drawn-out moment he stood at the center of the busy tavern, debating whether or not he should approach the bard – because really, this was a blessing. He was being offered peace and quiet and he would be a fool not to take that and run.  
  
Eventually, however, he muttered a gruff ‘fuck’ and stalked over to where Jaskier was singlehandedly ruining everyone’s evening.  
  
The bard didn’t look up or remove his legs until Geralt slid into the seat across from him, loudly slamming his plate down on the table. There was nothing else on it besides an empty glass and a small pile of coins.  
  
“Ah. Geralt.” He wrinkled his nose. There was no excitement in his tone, his cadence not nearly as jovial as usual. Geralt wasn’t sure why that irritated him more than the alternative. “Thought I smelled you. Very potent today, aren’t we? What _is_ that?”  
  
“Sewage.” Unfortunately, that had been where the hellhounds made their home. “What’s wrong with you?”  
  
Blue eyes blinked back at him, the picture of innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”  
  
“You’re one sad song away from inciting a riot.” Geralt jerked his head over the other’s shoulder to where the table from before was still gawking. “Answer the question.”  
  
“I’m perfectly fine, Geralt.” Jaskier licked his lips and reached for his drink, stopping when he realized it was empty. Geralt caught a slight tremor in his fingers as he started distractedly counting the coins. There was a piece of lint among them that he flicked off the table. “Think I can persuade the bartender to sell me a pint for five coppers?”  
  
“You’re lying.”  
  
“And _you’re_ being nosy. Isn't that your whole shtick? Not getting involved in...well, anything? Ever?" When he received no response, he groaned. "I’m just feeling a little under the weather, that’s all.”  
  
“I don’t believe you.”  
  
Geralt didn’t know why he was pressing the matter – it wasn’t like he really cared either way. He’d expected Jaskier to dish out a sob story about some countess or another, and had only come to warn him of the disgruntled masses. Do his part in keeping the bard alive another day and be on his way.  
  
Why, then? Why insist on looking this blessedly quiet gift horse in the mouth?  
  
“Oh, that’s it.” Jaskier bristled. “First, you insult my singing - ”  
  
“I didn’t insult your singing.” A pause, because the night was young. "Yet."  
  
“ – and _then_ you call me a liar?”  
  
Geralt scrutinized him for a moment, then sighed. “You wet your lips.”  
  
“I - _what_?”  
  
“Before you lie. Every time. And your heartbeat - ”  
  
“Are you – stop Witchering me!” Jaskier hastily gathered the coins on the table and undid the first button of his doublet, slipping them into a secret pocket within. “You know what? I think I’ve had quite enough of you for the evening, Geralt. _Ta_.”  
  
As he fumbled with closing the button again, Geralt spotted a suspicious stain on its collar. Small. Dark. He sniffed the air, caught the slightest hint of blood behind the stench of ale.  
  
He found himself half-standing, reaching across the table and snatching the collar. He ignored the way the other man flinched, gesturing at the stain with his eyes.  
  
“What's this, then?”  
  
“It’s nothing. Cut myself shaving. Gods, what’s gotten into you? Everyone’s looking - ”  
  
Jaskier squirmed free and Geralt noticed the spot on his cheek – which he had originally thought to be a shadow – was, in fact, a blossoming bruise. His plump lower lip, always a pleasant shade of pink, looked red and a bit swollen.  
  
“Jask - ”  
  
“I told you it’s _nothing_ \- ”  
  
“Who hurt you?”  
  
“What are you, my keeper? It was nobody – I mean, nothing _happened_. I only…tripped. Onto my straight razor, of course, because I was _shaving_ and…” Jaskier trailed off, puffing his cheeks out and releasing a breath when he realized Geralt wasn’t buying it. “Fine. I was mugged, all right? When I went outside to relieve myself, embarrassingly enough. A pair of brutes held me up at knifepoint while my trousers were still undone. They didn’t like it when I asked if they were taking the piss and whether they might let me finish mine first,” he let out a hollow laugh at his own joke, “so they roughed me up a bit. There. Happy?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“It’s a rhetorical – oh, never mind.” Jaskier pinched the bridge of his nose, willing away a throbbing headache. “Look, I’d really prefer to forget the whole thing and - ”  
  
“What did they take?”  
  
“Here we go. I dunno, Geralt. My dignity? My innocence? My sense of childlike - ”  
  
“ _Jaskier_.”  
  
A sigh before he started listing the items on the fingers of one hand. “Let’s see. All my coin. Well, minus the five coppers. My mother's brooch. My _journal_ , for whatever reason. That one hurt the most. Had all my notes on our adventures from the last two years or so. Oh, they also took the laces off my boots!" He tapped the fourth finger, his pinky, insistently. "I mean, what's _that_ about? Are laces suddenly a commodity - ”  
  
As he spoke, Geralt stood. Tracking would be easy, with the bard’s scent still on them. “And what did they look like?”  
  
“One was big, ugly, mean. The other was small, squirrelly. It smelled like they'd just come off a shift at the fishery, or - wait.” Jaskier shook his head, realizing belatedly what the other man meant to do. He'd recognize that eerily calm expression anywhere. “No! Sit back down. Though I would love to see justice, I prefer the poetic kind. Besides, you know better than anyone I can take a few punches and - Geralt, _no_ \- ”  
  
Without a word, Geralt made to leave. He only paused when something caught his sleeve and gently tugged. Not enough to stop him by any means, but when Jaskier spoke again his voice wavered. That alone had Geralt turning back to face him.  
  
“ _Please_.”  
  
The other’s eyes, puffy and bloodshot – perhaps from crying, which only made the Witcher angrier – were desperate. Pleading. Geralt’s own traveled down to where slender fingers were still holding his sleeve. After a moment, he conceded.  
  
“Fine.” He paused, feeling a little awkward as relief and gratitude flooded Jaskier’s face. “What do you want?”  
  
“What I _want_ is for you to sit that lovely arse of yours back down, stick and all, and - ”  
  
“No. That’s not…” Why was this so hard? Geralt ground the words out with no small amount of effort. “The owner, he offered free drinks for the night. For taking care of some hellhounds. What do you want?”  
  
“Oh. Free, you say?” Jaskier’s subsequent grin was light, then, and a strangely pleasant sight. “In that case, vodka. Lots and lots of it. And maybe a slice of lemon. For…scurvy.”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes. “Right.”  
  
He was back to babbling, which the Witcher took as a good sign. “And when you’re back I want to hear all about these hellhounds. Were they big? Small? How many teeth? You know, this might make for a nice song… _hounds from hell, in the sewers they dwell_ …” His voice grew distant as Geralt shook his head and padded back to the bar. “ _what an awful sme-e-ell_ …no that - that’s dreadful…”  
  
They spent the rest of the evening sitting in front of the tavern’s hearth as it burned down, drinking copious amounts of liquor and playing gwent. Jaskier was a fierce opponent, and one of the few able to consistently defeat Geralt. Eventually, when his words started to slur and he began ranting about all the improper things he would do to Hemdall, a card he had played, the Witcher decided it was time to haul him upstairs to his room.  
  
He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, which meant he didn’t get to see Geralt wordlessly storm back down the stairs, don his cloak, and exit the tavern in a flurry of black, white and silver.  
  
The next morning, when Jaskier blearily stumbled out of bed in search of water, he found his belongings (blue notebook, brooch, and _laces_ ) sitting innocently on the nightstand as though they had always been there. No coin purse. Probably spent by the brutes before Geralt could find them.  
  
He wasn't sure why, but he found himself immediately opening the journal. Perhaps to make sure it hadn't been messed with, or perhaps because some small part of him hoped Geralt had left any sort of evidence of himself upon its pages.  
  
A silly thought, and when he opened to the first page he found it untouched. ' _The biography of Geralt of Rivia, otherwise known as the White Wolf, Gwynbleidd to the elves. Written by his dearest and handsomest friend, Jaskier, who cares not for titles._ ' How Geralt had resisted messing with that was beyond him. He sighed, went to place it back on the table when he noticed a page had been dog-eared. He never folded pages like that, always used a marker.  
  
There, below his entry on the foglet the Witcher had fought a month or so ago, was a small blurb on hellhounds. Geralt's script was plain, the letters wider than they needed to be, but still incredibly neat.  
  
_'Took down 8 on 11 March in the sewers of Vizima. Adults are about the size of a black bear. Immune to stuns and knockdowns. Sensitive to steel soaked in specter oil. Lots of teeth.'_  
  
There were a few other details about the battle, far more professional than Jaskier's usual notes and little doodles. At the very bottom of the page, in smaller handwriting, was an addendum that had his lips curving into a small smile:  
  
_'If I hear you've written a ballad about this, Jaskier, I will feed you to a hellhound myself.'_  
  
Another addendum just below it, beside a teeny tiny droplet of what might have been blood.  
  
_'The big one pissed himself. There's your poetic justice.'_  
  
Needless to say, the ballad Jaskier performed that night - detailing the Witcher's sewer-based heroics, of _course_ \- was so inspired he raked in double what he'd lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geralt: ok MOM flashback moment but more importantly, why hasn't jaskier noticed me yet


	4. Valentine's Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the superstition “if you find a glove on the side of the road on St. Valentine’s Day, your future beloved will have the other missing glove.” 
> 
> and HAPPY BELATED VALENTINESSS <3 i might start posting more frequently on here, maybe plot lengths of a few short chapters at most

**Years ago, somewhere in the countryside...**  
  
Jaskier stopped again to break on the side of the road. It was the end of winter – 14 February to be exact – and the still-frigid countryside air burned his lungs both on the inhale _and_ exhale.  
  
“ _Toss a coin to your Witcher, o' Valley of_ \- ” he interrupted his own shaky song with a wheeze, teeth chattering violently, “ _fuck me_.”  
  
He was on the road, on foot, without supplies and traveling alone…the fact that not a single carriage passed in that time was just the shit icing on the shit cake.  
  
As he gathered himself and continued, he reflected on the series of events that got him there.  
  
And in retrospect, no, a few precious minutes of pleasure from having that nameless beauty’s lips wrapped around his family organ were not worth the pain and suffering he was now being forced to endure as punishment.  
  
Getting caught in the act by the Countess herself after she had just seen fit to welcome him back (with crossed arms and ample clothing) was perhaps why that punishment turned out so severe.  
  
Banishment from court, effective immediately. A price on his head and the most insulting wanted poster he’d ever seen. He’d been forced to escape the city like a mouse on the run in the wee hours of the morning, and had been walking ever since.  
  
That she had blackballed him from every social event happening in the territory on one of his favorite days, though, was the shit buttercream flower atop the shit icing atop the shit cake.  
  
So there he was, wandering the countryside in the cold with no cloak, no coin, no food or water. Only his lute and what little remained of his dignity.  
  
At some point he came across a medium-sized puddle in the road. There was a black bundle floating in it, and when he picked it up he realized it was a glove.  
  
Black leather, studded, exquisitely-crafted. Far too nice to be floating, forgotten, in suspiciously warm and viscous rainwater.  
  
He pocketed the thing with a shrug. Might be worth a pint or two...now to find a bar where he could trade it in and drown his sorrows.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
It was still light out when he finally found one, and for a hole in the wall it was surprisingly packed.  
  
He took a seat, groaning in relief because the boots he was wearing, while stylish, were definitely not meant for walking. An elderly woman introduced herself as the owner and took his order. Exhausted and dirty, he savored one drink, and then another, and then a third – and when time came for payment he offered instead a salesman’s smile.  
  
“So, here’s the deal - I can’t pay you in the technical sense _but_ ,” he pulled the glove out of his pocket, “I can offer you this.”  
  
She raised a brow. “One glove.”  
  
“Found it on the side of the road this morning. It’s a little worn, but soft as a baby’s bottom and worth _at least_ three pints. Maybe even four.”  
  
“Found it, you say?” Her face suddenly lit up. “Oh no, no, no, I can’t accept that, dearie. Don't you know what today is? I couldn’t possibly interfere with the gods’ work.”  
  
Jaskier’s disingenuous smile faltered. “Come again?”  
  
“Well, you know how the saying goes.”  
  
“Afraid I don’t.”  
  
“Something along the lines of, ‘if you find a glove on the side of the road on the day of love, your future beloved will have the other missing glove.’”  
  
“That’s oddly specific. Are you sure you didn’t just make it up on the spot?” She shook her head, and he wrinkled his nose at the glove in question. With its 'true nature' revealed, he was starting to notice some flaws. “You’re telling me my future beloved is a dirty, stinky giant? Really, smell this thing, it's - ”  
  
“True love is nose blind.”  
  
“What - okay, I'll play along. Exactly what am I supposed to do with this information?”  
  
“Find them, of course. As long as you do before the new day starts, it's meant to be.” She took a seat across from him, excitedly taking his hand. “What you have stumbled upon is a rare and beautiful thing, my dear. Happened once to a fellow in my town. He spent the whole day searching for its counterpart and as it turned out, it belonged to a _princess_. They wed immediately.”  
  
“ _Immediately_? Yikes.”  
  
“Yes, because there was no doubt about it. It was a sign from the gods. And this is, too - a sign that your twin flame is near. You must go looking for them, at once.”  
  
He gingerly took his hand back, wiping it on the front of his doublet. “And where do you propose I start?”  
  
Without answering, the woman shot up, snatching the glove from his hand. She started waving it in the air, addressing the masses.  
  
“Has anyone recently lost a glove? If you have, this strapping young man right here is yours for the taking - ”  
  
His face went bright red and he quickly urged her to sit back down as a burly man sitting at the bar surreptitiously slipped off one of his gloves and waved his bare hand in the air.  
  
“Really? I _saw_ you take it off!” The bard shook his head, turning back to the innkeeper. “Look, I appreciate your help, but this whole thing – it’s just impractical. I can’t very well drop to one knee for every ruffian who favors black leather. I’d be proposing to half of bloody Temeria.”  
  
“I see.” With a gentle smile, she returned the glove. “I recommend giving it a second thought, dearie. You don’t want to lose a shot at true love, do you?”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Try as he might, Jaskier couldn’t shake those words and by sundown, the poor glove had been forced on hands of every shape and size. None fit quite right. When that large-handed, large-breasted woman claimed the glove was hers he _almost_ looked the other way when it didn’t fit - almost. But he decided if he was going to spend the day chasing fairytales, he might as well do it properly.  
  
He also had high hopes for the bookish, freckled brunette sitting hunched over a corner table and scribbling furiously in a journal, but not only did he refuse to try the dirty rotten glove on, he rejected Jaskier so amiably the bard almost thanked him for it.  
  
After he had asked practically everyone and found no success, his foul mood started creeping back in. And what had started out as a shit day stayed true when he asked about a room and found the inn was booked solid for the evening.  
  
“Just gave the last one away, dearie. I’m so sorry.”  
  
"You've got nothing at all? Not even out in the suh – in the _stuh_ …” He wanted so badly not to have to ask that he had to force the word out, “ _stables_?”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t recommend it. It gets a little…colorful in there after hours. What I can give you is a bedroll and a blanket, though. Bottle of spirits to warm your belly in the cold? I feel so badly that you didn’t find your other glove.”  
  
“A crying shame, to be sure, but now I’m more concerned with how I'll survive the night. Aren't there any other inns nearby?”  
  
“Closest is about a day away on horseback. But there’s a lovely lake in the woods, not far from here. Nice spot to make camp, safe and secluded...do be sure to mind the werewolf, though. She’s been on a tear.”  
  
“Thanks, I - did you say _werewolf_?”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
So, this was his life now. Accepting pity alcohol from strangers, forced to spend the night roughing it in the wilderness with a werewolf on the loose.  
  
Sure, he’d roughed it plenty of times but that was usually with a certain sour-faced Witcher. As he dejectedly wandered the forest, searching for the lake, he started thinking back to the steps Geralt usually took to make camp.  
  
“If I were Geralt, what would I do?” At a cool breeze, he hugged the bedroll closer to his chest, and adopted a grumpy expression. “First, I would scowl like this for no reason. Grr, scary Witcher. I love glaring at nothing.”  
  
The forest was eerily still and slightly claustrophobic, his own voice bouncing off the trees and echoing back to him. In the distance, he heard water splashing and beelined towards it.  
  
“Then, after building a fire – even though I could easily catch a deer or a rabbit – I will do the bare minimum and serve up something like twig soup, or rat on a stick.”  
  
Nearly there. He thought he heard a soft whinny but paid it no mind, too caught up in his monologue.  
  
“Lastly, I will eat my portion aggressively fast and then glare at Jaskier’s until he gives it to me because I am a _shameless_ defensive eater.”  
  
He broke through the underbrush and stumbled out into the clearing with the lake, but rapidly realized he was not alone. He had to blink a few times to understand that what he was staring at were the backsides of both… “Roach? Geralt?”  
  
The horse snorted out a greeting but the Witcher didn’t turn around or acknowledge him. He was standing in the lake, which was about up to his thighs. He was also completely naked and in the process of dumping a large bucket of water over already-soaked silver hair.  
  
“Geralt! Hello-o-o?” Jaskier dropped the bedroll in disbelief, stepping up to the water’s edge. “Are you ignoring me? Oh, that’s a brilliant start. What are you even doing out here?”  
  
Geralt still hadn't turned around, but shot a look at Roach as if to say, 'do you believe this guy?' “Like you didn’t plan this.”  
  
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Get over yourself, will you? Of course I didn’t.”  
  
“Then why are you here?” His rough voice dripped with disdain. “Thought you were back at court.”  
  
Jaskier let out a dramatic sigh, perching on a low-hanging branch.  
  
“I was, but the Countess – well, long story short, she banished me. And put a teensy, _teensy_ tiny price on my head.”  
  
“What did you do this time?”  
  
“Just once I’d love for you to give me the benefit of the doubt. It’s not fair - ”  
  
Geralt finally turned around, snatching his tunic from the shore to dry himself off and Jaskier nearly fell off the branch. His hands immediately flew up to shield his eyes.  
  
“Good _gods_ , Geralt – why are you _fully erect_?”  
  
“Again?”  
  
Indifferent gold eyes glanced down as Jaskier spluttered out an almost unintelligible, “ _what do you mean 'again_?'” After a beat, Geralt shrugged and continued drying himself off.  
  
“Werewolf bite.”  
  
“ _Please_ explain what one thing has to do with the other.”  
  
“It's the only aspect of the curse I’m not immune to. Since lycanthropy can be passed to offspring, it compels the infected to, uh...” He squinted as he searched for the right words. “Spread their seed.”  
  
"And just how long does this last?” Jaskier made the mistake of peeking. " _Down_ , boy.”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes and slipped on his clothes. He carefully slowed his breathing, willing the blood elsewhere so he could button his pants.  
  
“It's taken about a day to work through my system. Last night was...worse.”  
  
Seeing he was dressed, Jaskier stopped making such a show of covering his face. “No wonder that sorceress is always in such a mood, having to contend with _that_ in the bedroom. I think I saw an elbow.”  
  
“Are you done?”  
  
“Not quite. Tell me, does it have its own saddle? Do you have to call it ‘sir?’”  
  
The Witcher groaned and stalked over to the little fire he’d built – perhaps, in part, to cover up the way the corner of his mouth twitched at those last two – when a long, low howl abruptly tore through the trees. Both men snapped to attention.  
  
“Was that the...”  
  
Geralt nodded and quickly started donning his armor. “She’s close.”  
  
Jaskier scurried to his side, nervously eyeing the underbrush.  
  
“You’re not going to kill her, are you? Isn’t she still a person in there?”  
  
“She made the choice not to shift back after the last full moon, abandoning her human form. I tried to reason with her, but she wouldn't listen. She's killed dozens. No choice but to put her down.”  
  
For the first time, the bard noticed the slowly-healing bite marks around the wrist of Geralt’s left hand. He also noticed that even though he’d finished securing his armor, he was only wearing one glove. Before he could ask, the Witcher suddenly pulled out a slab of raw meat from his pack and thrust it into his hands.  
  
“No thanks?” He gingerly held it aloft. "I...already ate. Wait, why are you smirking like that? No... _no_! Geralt, you said the succubus was the last time, you _promised_ \- "  
  
A large hand clapped his shoulder, steering him towards the source of the howling. "Come on, Jaskier. Just think of it as a big, fluffy dog that wants to play."  
  
♜ ♖  
  
That was how Jaskier found himself in the woods beneath a full moon, waving a slab of raw meat in the air and trying to pass it (or, more accurately, himself) off as a four-course meal.  
  
"Psspss. Here, wolfy wolfy. I've got a yummy treat for you. Some lovely...I want to say venison?" He lowered his voice. " _Geralt, is this venison_? _You never give_ me _venison._ "  
  
No response. Right. Sneak attack, that was the plan. She was wary of the Witcher's scent after their last encounter, and so he remained cloaked in the underbrush with his weapon at the ready.  
  
A twig snapped to Jaskier's left and he yelped, dropping the meat.  
  
"Oof...five second rule, am I right?"  
  
He quickly knelt to pick it up, but didn't see the stray bit of iron from what might have once been a weapon sticking up out of the earth. It sliced a path straight across his palm and he hissed, watching blood immediately well up and spill over.  
  
He straightened, heard the sound of birds scattering in the trees above. Then a snarl, something crashing through the bushes.  
  
One minute it was a yard away between the trees and the next it was right there, a massive black shape hurtling towards him at breakneck speeds. He saw bloodied fangs, glowing golden eyes, snapping jaws, but before the beast could reach him something shiny whistled over his shoulder and buried itself deeply in her chest.  
  
Jaskier watched, dumbfounded, as the wolf skidded to a stop at his feet, the tip of her snout less than an inch from his boot. She did not move. He heard footsteps come up from behind, then a calloused hand turned him around and took his, cautiously turning it over to examine the large cut on his palm.  
  
He expected a scolding remark, some sort of insult, but none came. Geralt wordlessly used his teeth to tear a strip of cloth from his cloak and began winding it around the injury. This felt like progress and he was terrified of fucking it up.  
  
"So-o-o...do you want to head back to camp and cook up that - "  
  
"Look out!"  
  
Before Jaskier could register what was happening, strong arms had grabbed him and spun him around.  
  
Pain exploded in Geralt's ankle and to compensate he put too much weight on Jaskier's shoulders, knocking them both off-balance. The bard fell back onto the forest floor, the wind knocked out of him once when he landed, and again seconds later when the Witcher's full weight crashed right on top of him.  
  
Geralt grunted as the wolf's jaw went slack. She released his ankle and her heartbeat stopped again, for good. It had been what tipped him off, a single thready _thump_. Her last ditch effort at spreading the curse.  
  
Jaskier's leg was what she'd been aiming for, he instinctively knew. All she needed to do was break the skin to alter the course of his life forever.  
  
"Mmrfrt?"  
  
Right. Shoving him out of the way meant nothing if he crushed him to death. Geralt used his arms to push his upper body off the ground, planting one on either side of the confused and flustered face below. He could feel warm blood painting the interior of his boot, followed by that familiar heat blossoming in his veins like a shot of whiskey warming his chest but it was everywhere, all-encompassing, and he knew it wouldn't be long until it reached a fever-pitch.  
  
"Geralt, what happened? Are you all right?"  
  
When he realized his thigh was slotted between the bard's legs he moved it, but unwittingly brushed against a tender spot that drew a surprised sound and had slender fingers digging deeper into his flesh. It wasn't until that moment that he noticed just where the bard's hands had landed.  
  
"Jaskier."  
  
Doe-like eyes gazed balefully up at him, trying to look the picture of holy innocence.  
  
"If you're going to ask about the sound I just made, Geralt, please do me a favor and _don't_."  
  
"You are grabbing my arse."  
  
Jaskier removed his hands with a gasp, looking mortified. Geralt had never seen anyone's cheeks turn such an alarming shade of scarlet.  
  
"That was an _arse_? I thought it was a leg, or an arm - or maybe a steel beam."  
  
He supplemented that with a breathy laugh and Geralt realized he was nervous. He moved to get off him but a wave of hot dizziness crashed over him, had him bowing his head and digging his fingers into the grass. Same as last night. He had barely been able to make it back to camp. Not good.  
  
"What's wrong? You're all sweaty." The lithe body beneath his started squirming so its owner could get a better look at what was going on and he gritted his teeth. In his haze, he heard a gasp that made his heart stutter. "Is - is that blood? How..."  
  
Geralt purposefully locked his eyes on a spot of grass above the other's head. "Stop talking."  
  
"Your leg...you spun me around. You knew what she was going to do, and you..." another gasp, "you took another bite? For me?"  
  
His head already felt swollen, seconds from bursting. " _Jaskier_."  
  
"Sorry, sorry. How can I help?"  
  
"You can't. It needs to run its course."  
  
"But you're burning up, I can feel it from here. There must be something I can do to relieve - "  
  
Geralt tore his eyes from the grass to deliver a patented _look_. "Sex, Jaskier. To completion."  
  
The bard choked. "I meant more along the lines of a cold compress, but...where's Miss Spooky Sexy? Don't suppose she could pop over and - "  
  
" _No_. I don't know."  
  
"The wish again?"  
  
A curt nod that was followed by an awkward silence. Geralt willed his body to move - because it pinning Jaskier to the ground was looking more and more sinister with each passing second - but an unfamiliar voice in the back of his mind hissed in anticipation at the way the bard's throat bobbed in the moonlight with a nervous swallow.  
  
_Smaller than you. Weaker than you. Prey._  
  
"You know, there were a few lovely ladies of the evening at the inn down the road. Maybe one of them would be open to..."  
  
_Take him right here, on the cold ground._  
  
The veins in his arms bulged and his voice was hoarse as he ground out, "Might hurt them."  
  
_Make him yours. Make him yours._  
  
Jaskier squirmed uncomfortably again before seemingly coming to a decision.  
  
"Right. Never let it be said I'm a fair-weather friend."  
  
_Make him_ -  
  
When he started unbuttoning his doublet, however, Geralt snapped back as if he'd been burned. He shot to his feet, still dizzy but spurred into action by the scent of fear. Jaskier's fear. Jaskier was afraid. Trying valiantly to hide it, but his fingers trembled on the third button.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"It's my fault you're like this, isn't it? She would've turned me...I owe you my life. My _humanity_. The least I can do is - "  
  
"What the fuck, Jaskier? Do you hear yourself right now?" The wolfish voice purred at the bard's disturbing proposition. "I'm not asking for - for fucking _compensation_."  
  
"That's not - I only meant - "  
  
"Just...stop talking. For one blessed minute."  
  
As Jaskier slowly nodded and did the buttons back up, Geralt braced himself against a tree, riding another wave that coursed through his veins like wildfire. Even the rough fabric of his linen tunic brushing against skin was agony, pure torture, his nerve endings like live wires. What had helped last night?  
  
Water. Cold water. It had taken awhile for the worst of it to wear off and even after an entire day he still experienced... _symptoms_ , but the cold water had helped ground him.  
  
After the wave passed and the voice softened to a manageable, yet persistent, whisper he straightened up and jerked his head towards the lake. With that, they made their way back to Roach and the lake. He shed his clothes and immediately got in, searing-hot skin sizzling upon contact with its frigid water.  
  
Steam rose off his shoulders in clouds and though the urge to deflower the nearest _orifice_ was still there, intensifying every time he caught a whiff of Jaskier's obnoxious perfume on the breeze, he was at least able to get his thoughts back in order.  
  
Jaskier uncorked the bottle the innkeeper had given him and sat on the lake's edge with his legs crossed. A little too close at first - Geralt gave him a look that had him shuffling a healthier distance away.  
  
After a few more minutes, he simply had to break the tense silence.  
  
"Can I just say I am _flattered_ \- "  
  
"Don't be."  
  
" - I know I'm irresistible. Many a lady has been captivated by my roguish charm and it was only a matter of time before you, too, succumbed - "  
  
"'Roguish charm?'" Geralt snorted. "To put it into perspective, I'd fuck a grave hag right now if she asked nicely."  
  
" _Eugh_. That's a lot of tongue." Jaskier watched the Witcher splash his face - the healing injury on his left hand made a lightbulb go off, and he gasped. "Oh! I almost forgot. Where did your other glove go?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"You'll see. Give me your hand."  
  
Gold eyes narrowed. The lustful fog had started to abate, but that seemed a little too close. " _Why_?"  
  
"Really? After you just used me as she-wolf bait? Give me your hand, you scallywag."  
  
He grudgingly complied as Jaskier scooted closer, pulled the sorry-looking glove out of his back pocket, and took his hand. Then he started slowly putting it on, finger by finger, his own slender ones moving with such focus and care around the still-tender skin it was almost irritating.  
  
Once it was on, Jaskier drew back with a low whistle. A perfect fit.  
  
"Now _that_ is spooky. It's yours, right?"  
  
"Why the fuck do you have this, Jaskier?"  
  
"Funny story, actually..."  
  
Jaskier passed him the bottle and started recounting it, sparing no detail.  
  
"So there it was, floating in this puddle, and - "  
  
There was an odd look on Geralt's face. "Puddle?"  
  
"Yes, a puddle of rainwater. Really brackish...and foamy. I think that's why it smells so bad."  
  
"It hasn't rained in a week, Jaskier."  
  
"Oh. So...you're saying it was a teeny tiny lake?"  
  
"The wolf took my glove when she nearly took my hand."  
  
"You're saying it was _drool_?"  
  
"Drool would be clear."  
  
The slowly budding look of horror on Jaskier's face was priceless.  
  
"What was it?" He swallowed thickly, glancing down at the hands he hadn't washed all day. "What was the puddle, Geralt?"  
  
For the first time since the tense moment on the forest floor, Geralt cracked a wicked smirk, letting the bard wriggle in suspense for a minute longer.  
  
"Vomit." His smirk grew as Jaskier's face paled. "It was vomit. A wolf swallowed my glove whole, puked it up on the side of the road, and you sifted through the bile to retrieve it."  
  
"No. Nonono..." Immediately, the bard lurched forward, sticking his hands in the icy water and started to _scrub_. "No, Geralt, that is _disgusting_! That is absolutely foul, I was practically elbow-deep and - are you _laughing_ at me?"  
  
Indeed he was. It wasn't entirely out loud, not at first, but once it moved out of his chest it evolved into a disarmingly nice sound. Rumbly, like the wheels of a carriage turning over cobblestone. Warm, too. Shockingly so.  
  
Jaskier's fervent splashing paused when he realized it was his first time ever hearing it. The smile that accompanied it lit up the harsh lines of that brooding face in a way he didn't think possible.  
  
And how did that silver mane, normally so unruly, create such a pleasant 'v' between his shoulder blades when wet? It shifted with his laughter, sending a small creek of glistening water down his broad back.  
  
The bard had no way of knowing that was the exact moment a small crush on the sweaty, laughing man floating in the water before him developed; a crush his heart would nurture until it swelled and bloomed but, one he would also remain obstinately oblivious to for years to come. 


End file.
